Going For the Gold
by neahcampbells
Summary: A disgraced gymnastic prodigy who's itching to prove herself, the reigning tennis champion seething from his last loss, and their relationship—all against the backdrop of the Crocus 2054 Olympics.


_Disclaimer: I do not own Fairy Tail. All rights go to Hiro Mashima._

* * *

 _Going For the Gold_

 _Summary:_ A disgraced gymnastic prodigy who's itching to prove herself, the reigning tennis champion seething from his last loss, and their relationship—all against the backdrop of the Crocus 2054 Olympics.

* * *

Zeref shakes her awake. _Shakes_ is the correct term for what he does, but he does try to be gentle, to his credit.

"What's two plus two?" he asks close to her ear.

"I could answer that even if I wasn't awake." She murmurs her words into the covers. It is confortable underneath all the blankets, and she has had one hell of a week with little to no sleep.

No way to spend the days before her event.

"What's the cubic root of twenty-six squared?" He tries to tug the covers away from her face, but Mavis holds tight to them. She is warm, uncomfortably so, which means Zeref has pulled back the curtains.

Mavis grunts. "You don't know the answer to that, so why even ask?"

"If you're sassing then you're awake, I suppose." His words prompt Mavis to throw back the covers and glare at him. Zeref smiles at her and runs a hand through her hair, draws strands of it away from her face.

"It's tangled."

Mavis huffs, muttering, "Whose fault is that?"

Zeref laughs. One hand cups the back of her neck to draw her into a kiss, bringing forth memories of a night spent making out. His lips move over hers, but to her surprise he leans back a second later. "I need to go."

"I know." She wraps her arms around his neck, reluctant to let go just yet. Under normal circumstances, she would have woken up much earlier and left with him, but they had talked about it the night before, and had decided two hours of extra sleep is worth a break in routine.

"You okay?" He is so close his lips brush against hers when he speaks.

"Lovely." It is half sarcasm, half not: she _does_ enjoy waking up like this, and it is rare that she gets to see him looking anything less than grouchy this early in the morning. But of late he has been asking her if she is okay a lot, and it reminds her of all the responsibility riding on her shoulders this week.

"You'll be fine." He kisses her again, this time deeper, for far longer. It takes time for her to remember that he should go and even longer to feel inclined to pull away, but she does.

"You," she kisses the corner of his lips, "are," following the edge of his jaw, she punctuates each word with a kiss, "going—to—be—" and then whispers in his ear, "late."

Zeref snorts. "This is a terrible day for a match."

"Don't _say_ that." Mavis looks him in the eyes. "You're go to win and you're going to get the gold and you're going to get your Golden Slam." Zeref had already won three of the four major tennis tournaments; all that stood in his way to get the title was a gold medal in the Men's Singles and winning the Crocus Open, the fourth major tournament of the year.

Still a lot, but he is so _close_.

He squeezes her hands as a thank you. Zeref has a tendency to show her how he feels rather than tell her, but she does not mind. It is kind of cute, because when he tries to be romantic he overdoes it. One time he had filled an entire room full of lilies, and unfortunately she had never told him she was allergic to them.

"I'll be there," she promises.

"If you insist." He tilts his head up, sighing as if her attendance is a great burden to him.

"Mean," she mutters into the crook of his neck.

* * *

He wins, of course, because such improbable things happen to Zeref on a daily basis. He is lucky; has always been lucky, even before Mavis had ever met him. He is the person who wins the lottery, the guy who does the impossible and has no idea it is remarkable, and is thus quite unhappy with what he has because he does not know what it means to be any less lucky than he is.

His mother had died under suspicious circumstances in a fire. His younger brother had survived it, but a less than optimal foster system had torn them apart. Zeref had ended up in a middle class home in their home city of Mildea, under the care of a couple of tennis enthusiasts, which had led to his early tennis career—all thanks to his luck.

"Will you compete in the Crocus Open? Do you think you'll win?" the reporter asks him. Mavis can see Zeref's face on the screen high above her head. They are in the stadium, but he is still down there by the courts, being interviewed after his win while Mavis is sits in a VIP box next to a slew of celebrities and politicians.

"I have high hopes." He says nothing else, waiting for the man's next question. He sounds curt, as per usual, but Mavis knows it is due to stage fright. The rest of the world assumes he does not like reporters (which is true) but the reality is that speaking in front of the cameras terrifies him, and when he tries to hide it he comes across as apathetic.

No one is about to tell them that, though, because it is bad press.

"And your girlfriend is here? I'm told she's competing this Olympics too?" This Mavis does not expect, and she is now glad that she had chosen to wear a hat and a braid that make her look like a different person.

Zeref's face does not register any surprise. "Yes, she's here." She imagines there are cameramen around the stadium who would cut off their fingers for a shot of her at this moment. At the thought, one of her hands rises to check that the hat is still there, that it has not flown away in some unlikely turn of events.

"So she's not retired?" Well, she _had_ been. Sort of.

Zeref beams at the reporter, perhaps shocking the life out of the older man. "Of course not, I think this year the rhythmic gymnastics events will be quite interesting. Is that all?"

The reporter stammers out that yes, that is all indeed. Zeref makes a quick getaway out of there, and meets her in front of a café two blocks from the stadium an hour later.

"That was a great game!" Mavis almost tackles him when she spots him, but she reminds herself not to attract any attention. After all, there are TVs everywhere around them televising the events, and people are likely to recognize Zeref, if not Mavis.

That is okay, though. She _is_ happy for him, and a little less privacy than desired will not change that. Most Olympians crave their nineteen-day fame, but Zeref and Mavis have 365 days of moderate fame thanks to Zeref. He is the star player, not her, but they live together, and that means little privacy for her too.

"Yeah." It is the only thing he says before he has to clear his throat, choked up from emotion. She hugs him tighter. This undisputed win of his means a lot: last Olympics he had gotten silver.

He wears a polo shirt she had contemplated setting on fire more than once and a scarf that covers half of his face. His intention had most likely been to disguise himself, but his clothes attract more attention than any gold medal. People have started to glance at them from the corner of their eyes; others stare without any thought to politeness. Mavis takes his hand, tugs him towards a cobblestoned path that has less people milling around it.

"Now you only have to win Crocus." Mavis leans on his shoulder, hooking both her arms around his left as they walk. He does not reply, so she says, "What's wrong?"

Zeref twines their fingers together. "I just wish that bastard hadn't retired."

Mavis tsks. "He was getting a tad old."

Zeref purses his lips. "I almost beat him last time."

"It was smart to retire at that point, though. Looking at it from his perspective," she adds when Zeref grimaces. "You were more than a match for him."

Acnologia had retired after years of speculation over when he would turn in his racket. He had ended his career on a high note, beating Zeref at the Crocus Open last year. The match had won him a Grand Slam—a consecutive win on all four major tournaments.

Smart as it may have been of Acnologia, however, Zeref is still seething about it. Before last year, the two had been considered to be on the same level, but four straight loses with no way to redeem himself had been a bitter pill to swallow.

"I'm going to win the Crocus Open." Zeref grits his teeth, glaring at—well, at nothing in particular, but another couple in their vicinity takes one look at him and scurries away.

"I know you will." Mavis settles her head on his shoulder as they walk in silence, both of them avoiding the interest the press had taken in her once again.

* * *

"You're not coming up high enough. Watch your ankles!" Yury's voice rises over the music.

The beat climbs as Mavis pirouettes and flips on one hand, sending one of her clubs into the air before rolling across the sand. She settles on her knees, one hand thrown back behind her and the other in front of her to form a vertical line. The club lands on her right, the motion so practiced she knows the exact placement of her hand for it to land well. Mavis throws them both back into the air before she descends into a front split, kicking back one of her legs as she bends at the waist.

She makes sure her ankle is sharp before Yury can say a word. It is not that her ankles are not locked out or that her arches are not pronounced enough; rather, it is the fact that Mavis had once been known for precision and the sharpest ankles to ever grace the floors of an Olympian stadium.

Yury claps his hands together when she finishes, one club caught beneath her foot and the other in her outstretched hand. "That was good."

"Thanks," she says. She throws the apparatus at him on her way out, chuckles when he yelps. Yury follows behind her as she enters the locker room. Her leotard sticks to her, and she cannot wait to be out of it and under running water. There are other things she wants out of this night, though, because Zeref had promised to read to her in Mildean, and Zeref whispering in his first language is the hottest thing she has ever heard.

They had both spent the last year training, and it had limited the time they had spent together. It had strained their relationship because while Zeref had been used to training ten hours a day or even more, Mavis had dropped off the gymnastics scene after her monumental loss. The press had blamed Yury—who had been her new coach—or they had blamed her age or even a nonexistent boyfriend the general public later assumed had been Zeref, despite the fact that the two had not met until her career had gone up in flames.

What had caused her quick descent into obscurity had been an embarrassment of a performance at the last Olympics, but what had caused _that_ had been an ankle injury as a result of overtraining. Warrod had changed her routine at the last minute to accommodate for it, but the low difficulty and rushed execution had not allowed her to classify for the event finals, much less given her a chance to defend the title she had won the previous Olympics.

"Let's have dinner." Yury hands her a water bottle, which she drinks down.

Mavis shakes her head, stops to beam up at him. "I'm going out with Zeref." She can picture the rest of her evening: going to dinner with Zeref, coming back to their room half-asleep and to dozing off to his lilting Mildean. In the morning he would wake her up with kisses and she would spend the next two days taking back her title, sticking it in everyone's faces that she had not peaked at the age of twenty.

"You should rest. No going out of the Village, Mavis." He sounds annoyed.

Mavis makes a vague sound of acquiescence, but shakes her head because she may see his point, but she also knows herself best. "I have all this energy I need to get rid of, and I want to have fun tonight."

" _No_ sex."

Mavis rolls her eyes. "Yes, I know. _No_ sex." She mimics his tone, and feels bad at once for mocking him. "Sorry."

"It's fine." It is obviously not, but they have been over this before.

"I need to go."

* * *

Zeref smells like lemon and wood. He sits cross-legged at the head of their makeshift bed—two twins they had pushed together after swapping roommates so that they could room together. He leans back into a mountain of pillows, and Mavis takes her chance to slip her arms around his waist, resting her head against his chest.

"Nervous?" He spins a lock of long blonde hair around his finger.

"A bit." Mavis half-hopes he will not hear her, but he does anyway.

"Don't take this the wrong way," he says. There is an urgency to his voice that makes her frown. "It doesn't matter if you don't classify tomorrow."

Mavis, who has a string of rebuttals ready, stops at his words. She had expected reassurances and she had prepared herself to tear those arguments down, but she had not expected him to think she would _lose_.

"Oh." What else can she say?

Zeref tilts her head up. "Please don't take it the wrong way."

Mavis wants to lash back, to snap at him that of course she would take it the wrong way, of _course_ , because this is not the way to comfort his anxious girlfriend—but she takes a deep breath, reminds herself fighting is never worth it, and saves her fury for after he explains himself.

"Go… on."

He brushes the pad of his thumb across her cheek, perhaps looking for tears to wipe. The gesture is so tender she almost forgets she has a reason to be mad at him.

"You're more than a couple of medals and a title." He pulls her tighter against him. "I want you to win, I know how much it means, but I don't… I just want you to know I love you regardless." Her heart skips a beat at his words. She raises her head off his chest, eyes locking with his own before they flit around the room, half expecting a ring to materialize out of thin air. "I'll love you if you win and I'll love you if you lose. You're amazing."

Mavis settles back down onto his chest. She settles her ear against his heart, the sound of it calming her. "That's really nice, but that's not what you're supposed to say!" She huffs. "You should be more encouraging."

Zeref shrugs with one shoulder. "Um, be sure to get back at them for stealing your gold for a while there?"

Mavis shakes her head. "I'm much better at this than you are." At her words, Zeref raises his eyebrows. Mavis grins at him, which prompts him to sit up, taking her with him. "Hey!" His hands slip under the sequined dress she had worn to dinner. They inch up her legs to ride up the fabric. " _No_ sex."

Zeref bites his lip. "Scientifically-speaking there is no evidence—and—and for women it's the opposite. Not that such a thing makes sense anyway! It's—" He looks like he will say more, so Mavis places a finger on his lips, but he presses on. "Orgasms promote—"

"Nope." And that is final. It is not about the sex itself, at any rate. It is about sleep. Zeref can kick someone's ass in the tennis court on three hours of sleep, provided his opponent's level of expertise is low enough; Mavis cannot even walk in a straight line on that little. Her hypersomnia forces her to get much more sleep than most people, and given that for the last year she had been following a strict training schedule in the hopes of getting back into Olympic medalist-shape, there had been little room for sex.

Zeref appears to deflate as he falls back into the pillows with an oompf. "Did I mention you look gorgeous tonight?"

"You haven't, but thank you." She lets out a chuckle.

He purses his lips, perhaps because he realizes she is not about to take the bait. "How about an extended make out session?" He tries one last time, his eyes hopeful, prompting Mavis to kiss the corner of his lips as an apology. "Like last night."

"I promised Yury we'd be good."

Zeref brushes his lips against hers in response, picking up a hardcover book from the nightstand. He holds it up to her so that she can read the title. "So reading, then?" Although she does not know Mildean, he has read this one to her before. She recognizes the golden lettering on the cover as the story of a girl who dies in arms of her lover after their one and only kiss.

"Oh yes, that one."

"Goodnight," he whispers.

"Nighty night."

She snuggles into him once again, and smiles against his shoulder as he starts to read.

* * *

The Olympic Village for Crocus 2054 is an impersonal, state-of-the art facility designed specifically for the thirteen thousand athletes competing in the games. As is always the case where a high number of very young, very fit people gather, there is a lot of partying involved.

Zeref and Mavis would have been happier at a hotel, but living somewhere else while they are still in the games is not allowed, and the commuting time back to the training facilities had been too much to do so anyway. She had interrupted more people having sex in public spaces this week than she had throughout the last four years alone, and that plus a strict—but often irrelevant, given that neither Zeref nor her have much self-control—celibate training regime had been frustrating.

The Team Fiore locker room is spacious, with blue and silver décor, leather coaches and gleaming wood. There are other gymnasts and coaches looking at her—and Yury, who paces in front of her, but mostly they ogle her, not him. She does her best to ignore them, but her number is coming up fast.

"Mavis," Yury calls. Mavis nods at him. He hands her the purple rubber ball she will use for her first routine, to match with the sequined lavender leotard that sticks to her at present. Yury walks her to the exit, right outside the scope of the cameras beyond. "You'll do amazing." Mavis nods again, too choked up to say anything. Yury notices, so he says, once again, "You'll do _amazing_ , okay? You know that routine up and down."

Amazing. Everyone keeps using that word, to the point that she wonders if maybe they are trying to reassure themselves, not Mavis.

"It'll be okay." She wishes Zeref was around right about now, but only the gymnasts and their coaches are allowed this far. She has kissed him goodbye so many times before his matches, and she has never been on this stage since they had gotten together, so this is her first time performing with him in the audience.

She had met Zeref four years ago, the night of her disastrous Olympic loss. Now it is once again the fourteenth day, and she remembers what he had said last night. _It doesn't matter if you don't classify tomorrow._ It does matter, though. He had never known a Mavis that could not travel with him to matches or had a training regime that banned sex, but for the last year that had been their reality.

She hopes his late night irritation had had more to do with Yury than with her _training_. Zeref had, after all, been the one to encourage her to enter the test event for another shot at the Olympics. No one with the credentials she needed had been available to coach her, and so she had called Yury as a last resort. Maybe if Zeref had known then, as he does now, that Yury had still carried a torch for her, he would not have suggested anything.

Maybe Mavis would not have taken him up on it.

Mavis glances back at Yury again, who smiles, and wonders if she had made the right choice picking him as her coach. The one thing she is certain of, when she strides into the arena, is that it all rides on her performance today.

When she had been younger, her performances had been defined by precision, high leaps and smooth transitions. They had used more elements from ballet than had been normal, and she had been labeled a class act. When the music booms out, however, it is not a snippet of a symphony composed by a long-dead musician; rather, it is an electropop spin on an old Mildean song she had taken a liking to.

The precision is still there, the leaps are higher, and her transitions are smooth but abrupt, befitting of a performance that aims to be dramatic, not classical.

And the crowd does not know what to make of this new her, but the judges hand her a 19.53—incidentally, the highest score she has ever gotten at this stage. When she goes back into the locker room, the stares have turned to glares.

Hostility clogs the air.

No one expected the old champion to come back like this, and neither did Mavis, despite all the training and tearful hoping done at night. She is pleased, though, high on the knowledge that she is not too old at twenty-four, that her critics had been wrong, and that her career is not over.

* * *

Zeref meets her right outside the locker room. She runs into his arms, feeling exhilarated and more than wanting to show off her new, dramatic self. He is so surprised he almost drops her, but there are several advantages to having the reflexes of a successful tennis player, and one of them appears to be catching his girlfriend when she hurls herself at him.

"That jump was so high." She winds her arms around his neck, braces the heels of her feet against the back of his knees. She slips anyway but lands on her feet. "And you caught the hoop with your toes? Somehow?"

She smiles at him. "I did, didn't I?"

"And you did so many pirouettes in a row." Mavis likes the look in his eyes. Zeref had stopped showing an interest in gymnastics after she had given up on it. His technical knowledge of gymnastics is limited to the basics of what makes a good pirouette, a good arabesque, a good something or another—and what is and is not penalized, but it means a lot that he likes it.

"Yeah, that too." Mavis slides her hands up his neck, cups the back of his neck and pulls his lips to hers.

"I thought you were going for classical." Mavis smiles against his lips. Her training room back home had been soundproof, and she had never shown Zeref her routine. The crowd had not been the only ones she had wanted to shock. Mavis had spent years watching him train and win and get results, and she had wanted him to see her routine at its best.

"You butchered that song." His voice is low, eyes trained on her lips and hands pulling her closer to him.

"Butchered is a strong word." She kisses him, and steps on his toes to reach higher, but a cough soon brings her back down to reality. She looks back at Yury, standing to the side of the locker room's entrance.

"Sorry to bother you." Yury does sound sorry, which is why she steps off Zeref. She laces her fingers with his, shooting him a reassuring look that goes unnoticed because he has his eyes pinned to Yury, who shuffles his feet under his glare.

Yury thinks Zeref dislikes him, which is true, but Yury also thinks Zeref hates everyone except Mavis, which is not. Zeref is not a people person. He has the ability to be charming, but he never cares enough to spend effort into doing so. All in all, his aloofness makes for an enviable poker face.

"That was a great performance." It surprises her that Zeref acknowledges Yury at all. None of this would have been possible without Yury, or the injury that had landed his usual trainee in a year-long hiatus. No one had wanted to train a disgraced prodigy, but Yury had agreed.

Yury's eyes widen at being addressed, but he recovers with a shrug. "It was all her."

Mavis stomps her foot. "I'm right here!"

Zeref glances down at her, a small smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, you really are."

* * *

That night she takes her chance and rummages around the room for any trace of a ring, but by the time Zeref comes out of the shower she has sorted through everything in their room at least once.

Nothing.

His hair is still damp when she runs her hands through it, his lips cool as they brush against her neck. "That performance was really hot."

"I'm—" she takes a deep breath when he catches the tip of her ear with his teeth, "glad you think so."

"Really?" His voice is low, his accent more pronounced than ever. Mavis' toes curl in response.

"Really, yeah." Mavis has to clear her throat; she sounds breathless. "Um yeah, really. Really, you're right. Really." She is not sure where she was going with that.

"I get the point, I think." He tries to suppress a chuckle, but fails. It does all kinds of things to her when the sound reaches her ears, but it also does something else.

"You're laughing at me," Mavis hisses, pushing him off her. He dissolves into peals of laughter next to her. "Don't laugh!" He laughs harder, and she resists the urge to kick him off the bed. "You're going to regret this tomorrow."

"Right." Zeref clutches at his stomach. "Of course."

Now she does shove him off, and throws a pillow at him for good measure. "You can sleep down there today!"

There is a beat of silence.

"What if the monsters drag you away, though?"

Mavis huffs, but lets him get on again after he turns off the light. "You don't play fair."

Zeref pulls her against him, his front against her back, spooning her over a mess of satin pillows. "When did you get so cute?"

"I'm—not—cute!"

* * *

Her final goes well, so well a part of her remains convinced it has all been a dream. She had classified in first place, and had kept that spot the whole time, through all four apparatuses.

"So I won?" Mavis says. "Are you sure?" She shakes Yury by the shoulder. "Did I, Yury?" She keeps her eyes on the screen, but it does not _seem_ real. Mavis Vermillion, 19.41, it reads. It does not seem real at all, to not only win but to achieve a near perfect score.

The medal is already hanging around her neck, Fiore's anthem has already played, and Yury is walking her out of the restricted areas to meet Zeref, but surely there is a mistake.

Surely it had not gone so fast.

"Incredible," Precht mutters next to her. He swings his hand in an arc, shakes his phone in front of her face. "I've had no less than three calls about you and it hasn't been an hour."

"What calls?" Dazed, she almost trips trying to keep up with him. "Sponsors?"

Precht swings his arm again, gesturing wildly. "There's been some inquiries about your calendar, but that was mostly yesterday. Lots of interviews—I turned them down—but I expect the sponsors will come."

Mavis nods along to him, still overwhelmed. Yury notices. "I think we can talk about it later, man." He sets a hand on Precht's shoulder.

Precht tsks. "No time like the present." Precht frowns. "When are you getting married? We need to set up a press conference, they'll ask." He takes one look at Mavis' shocked expression and rolls his eyes. "They _will_ ask, you know how the press is." A beat. " _Are_ you getting married? We could spin that angle, too. Very edgy, I think."

"You know who's not going to get asked? Him." Yury crosses his arms, irritation seeping from his voice. They round a corner, where they come across the silver medalist in rhythmic gymnastics. A year older than her, she had won gold last Olympics, when Mavis had failed to make it past the qualifiers.

Mavis had started out in artistic gymnastics at the age of six, had moved on to rhythmic when she had been old enough to enter its tournaments, at sixteen. Her being a prodigy had eclipsed everything else, not only monopolizing wins—and prize money by extension—but also sponsors.

Mavis had been mocked and torn down for a reason. No one had wanted to get stomped on again by a girl who had more gold medals than she knew what to do with.

The girl does not pass her by as Mavis expects. Instead she stops. "I guess you're back." She has an arrogant air about her that makes it obvious her sanity is a loss away from crumbling. Mavis nods. She steels herself for a backhanded jab about last Olympics, but Zera looks away, pursed lips turning down in a grimace. "I'm going to beat you at the Grand Prix."

Mavis has not decided if she will compete or not, but she finds herself saying, "You can try." Yury shoots her a look, shocked and more than a little disapproving because the Grand Prix is in less than four months, and he will not be around to coach her after this.

"See you there."

* * *

Zeref does not greet her with a smile or a kiss or even a somewhat pleased expression. He has a scowl on his face the likes she has never seen, and it becomes clear why when she looks behind him.

"That was a magnificent performance." Acnologia grabs one of her hands, kissing it. Zeref's who body seems to twitch, and he looks half-deranged with narrowed eyes, his teeth white from the way he presses them together. "I'm such a fan, I'm afraid I didn't know you were Dragneel's girlfriend."

"A fan?" It is amusing how she has never met this man despite having heard so much about him from Zeref. "Were you in the stands today?"

"Oh yes, when I saw the qualifiers, I was shocked to see you there. I could have sworn you were retired." At least he is polite enough to not mention the embarrassing way that had happened.

"Zeref," she winds one arm around his elbow, "encouraged me to try again. He knows how important this was to me." Zeref looks mollified. "We wanted to be at the Olympics together."

Acnologia cocks his head. Mavis suppresses a sigh when he shifts his attention off her. "You won gold this time, yes?"

Zeref's eye twitches. "Yes, I did." His voice could have cut through glass.

Acnologia makes a dismissive gesture. "I suppose your time had to come at some point."

"Really?" Zeref gives him a tight-lipped smile. "Would you care for a match, then?"

When Acnologia shoots him a glare, Mavis knows she is in for a long night, and not the kind she had been expecting.

* * *

"We could have had a nice date. We could have gone sight-seeing, or skinny-dipping, or we could have gone somewhere—anywhere—else, but no." She stalks down the hallway leading to their room, slams her keycard through the lock before entering. "No, you _had_ to play him. What about me?" She turns teary eyes on Zeref, who looks quite shocked for a second.

"Mav—" He holds up his hands before letting them fall, and again, lost for words.

Mavis sniffs. "It's okay."

"That sounds like a trap." He closes the door behind him.

"Well, it is." She makes her tone light, but she does feel hurt that he had spent all night playing tennis match after tennis match against Acnologia instead of celebrating her gold medal. He knows it, too. "But you're going to bite because you love me." She has never used that word in relation to Zeref before. She had thought it, but had been waiting to see if it was okay to use. He had said it first the other night, so the possible implosion of their relationship over too much commitment too fast would not ride on her shoulders, unlikely as that would be for their four-year relationship.

"I'm sorry, I was just… I wanted to redeem myself." Mavis looks at him from the corner of her eyes. She more than understands how it feels to want to make up for a loss, but not on their anniversary.

Because it _is_ their anniversary.

The actual date had passed two weeks ago, and it had done so without incident because the Olympics were coming up. In the end, symbolism had proved more important than the date marked in their calendars.

They had met on the fifteenth day of the Olympics, pushed together in a crowded dining hall. Mavis had come back from watching the rhythmic gymnastics final, tearful and hostile all at once. She had gone looking for ice cream to drown herself in tears and TV for the night, but had stayed up talking to Zeref instead.

There had been no reason why Mavis had picked him, except that he had stood out. He had been the only other person alone in her direct vicinity, and his accent had been striking. She had heard the same accent many times throughout her life, but no one had ever made each word sound like sin like Zeref had. She had always been too busy, too shy to talk to boys, but he had made her swoon with a word. Mavis had known back then Yury would be there if she went back to her room, and she had also known she would do something reckless one way or another, so when picking between someone safe and someone new, she had picked the latter.

And it had turned out well, somehow, because four years down the line she can still recall the way he had first said her name that day, Maeve-viz, exaggerating his Mildean accent because he had been able to tell she had been sad and had wanted to maker her laugh.

"I wanted to end the day on a good note for both of us. Career-wise," he adds when she looks at him, incredulous. He waits for her to say something, but when she does not, he huffs. "It's not my fault we ended up sitting next to each other for hours. He's _such_ a dick."

Mavis crosses her arms. "You have no self-control."

Zeref mutters something that sounds unkind, likely about Acnologia or Yury, before he grabs her hand, enclosing it between his own. "We can go out right now, if you want. We don't have anything tomorrow until the conference."

Mavis is mad at him, but… "I have a better idea."

Zeref frowns at her. "Sure, we can do whatever you like. What did you want to…?"

Mavis smirks, amused that he can sometimes be so oblivious. She leans up on her toes. "Symbolism."

* * *

"Miss Vermillion, how does it feel to be on top of the rhythmic gymnastics field once again?"

 _It feels like the right state of affairs_ , she wants to say. Zeref would have gotten away with saying something so arrogant, but the media would tear her down for not being humble and proper if she does open her mouth. She allows a broad smile to grace her lips and says, "Like coming home."

"Miss Vermillion, will you be participating in the Grand Prix this coming October?"

Mavis' smile widens at that. This is how it goes, every single time: a small smile throughout the conference, a slight widening of the lips before she answers, as if to assure the crowd of reporters she is delighted to be there for them. "It's highly likely."

"Highly likely, Miss Vermillion?" the same reporter asks.

Another smile. "Yes." She continues, though, because the man does not look like he will let it go. "My current coach, Yury Dreyar, will go back to overseeing his previous trainee upon his return to Magnolia. It depends on whether I find a coach I can work with during the next month." From the corner of her eye, she can see Precht giving her an OK sign. "My agent, Precht Gaebolg, is currently doing his best to make sure such a thing happens. I would love to take part." Precht gives her a thumbs up, a stark contrast to Yury's peaked visage next to him.

"Miss Vermillion, your rise back to prominence has been extraordinary. Could you tell us more about what you've been doing these past four years?"

Smile. "I've been focusing on myself. I felt I needed a break from athletics." She decides volunteering information will be better received than waiting for them to ask. The more accommodating she appears, the less they will prod. She braces herself. "Although I initially took time off to allow an ankle injury to heal, I had very little time to myself since I went pro. Gymnastics is a demanding discipline, both mentally and physically, and I needed a break." By the time she had felt confident enough to go back, there had been no way out, and that had plunged her back into the dark recesses of her depression.

"Miss Vermillion, so your four-year hiatus has nothing to do with your relationship with Zeref Dragneel, who won the gold medal for the Men's Tennis Singles?"

Mavis gives the woman her nicest smile. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Throughout the years there have been many who've claimed to have seen you with Mr. Dragneel during Visterion 2051 and even before then. Mr. Dragneel himself said you were retired less than two years ago. Did he influence your decision to take a break from your career, Miss Vermillion?"

Mavis shifts her hands on the table in front of her. She is sitting at the front of a small room. It looks much nicer than other ones she has been in before, and Mavis wonders what Precht had done to get it reserved. "Up until a year ago, I did consider myself retired, but with the Olympics coming up, I felt the need to compete again. I expect I'll continue in this field for a long time after this. Zeref has been nothing but supporting of my career choices then and now."

"Miss Vermillion, you've been dating Mr. Dragneel for four years now, do you have any plans to get married? Have children?"

Smile. "Getting married is not currently my concern. I may or may not have children in the future, it depends on lots of things." She wants to scream that she is twenty-four, that she has never thought about it, but the media will eat it up and dig her grave for her if she does. "Someday."

* * *

Mavis tastes the strawberries on his tongue when he kisses her, feels the beat of his pulse underneath her fingers as his lips glide along hers. She had meant to slide her hands into his hair, had wanted to drag him even closer to her than he is now, but she likes to feel his heartbeat under her fingertips. She bites down on his bottom lip, her own lips curling when she feels his pulse race along.

Zeref runs his hands up her sides, caressing the skin over the thin material of her dress. A gasp falls from her lips. "What's so funny?" He either keeps his voice low, or she has contributed to making it that way. She recovers, giggles against his lips before pressing hers to his own. "No, what is it?" Her amusement is contagious, though, because he lets out a chuckle.

"Can't I just be happy?" She grabs one of his hands, wraps his arm around her waist, placing his palm against the small of her back. Zeref gets the hint, pulling her closer still. Her hands move over his shoulders, uses them as leverage to jump up. He catches her, holding her up for the five seconds it takes him to cross the room and fall back into the bed.

Mavis traces lines down his naked back, letting her nails run along his skin, making him gasp.

* * *

The alarm wakes her up, bright and early on the Sunday after the Olympics. They had travelled back to Visterion soon after the closing ceremony, intending to make good time. Zeref had gotten back to training, getting ready for the Crocus Open. Mavis had settled on a coach that had seemed nice at first but turned out to be a tyrant—which is good, all things considered.

Sunday is the best day of the week because it is the one day where their training time gets cut in half. Zeref's twelve-hour schedule goes down to six and Mavis' to five. A blessing, because it allows them to spend more time together than at any other point throughout the week.

Buried under the covers, she extends out her arm, blindly looking for the alarm, only for it to quiet on its own. Instead of ignoring it like a sane person would and going back to sleep, though, the event strikes her as so out of place she comes alert. She peeks from under the blankets, and her mouth drops open when she finds Zeref sitting up on their bed, reading a book.

He is not even looking at her.

"You're awake." Zeref makes a vague sound of acquiescence. "Why are you awake?"

"Just woke up early." He glances at her but soon returns to his book, his stance far too casual to actually _be_ casual. He is reading that story again, the one she likes, with the dead lover and the cursed man. Mavis knows he hates that novel, and grows suspicious. Zeref is not reading; he cannot be, and she is certain he is planning something.

"That's good." Mavis narrows her eyes. She pushes a book off her nightstand, using only the tip of her finger. When nothing happens, she puzzles whether it would have been possible for him to bobby-trap the floor while she was asleep. Maybe not, but perhaps something equally nefarious awaits her around the villa.

"You okay?" Zeref frowns at her.

"Just fine." She shoots him a smile as her mind runs through a list of things that would warrant Zeref waking up this early. It does not take her long to realize that nothing in her experience warrants such a thing from him. "Never been better."

He nods, eyes sliding back to his novel. Mavis leaves for the bathroom, pushing open the door with her feet just in case a creature—she never knows with Zeref—jumps out at her. She checks the bathroom twice before she decides nothing is wrong, and hopes that Zeref _had_ woken up by coincidence today. She makes an effort to surprise him on her way back into their room, slamming the door open, but he does not even flinch.

He does tilt his head at her, though. "Are you—?"

"Fine." She holds up a hand, feeling a tad ridiculous at suspecting him like this, but it is so strange for him to be—well, awake. Perhaps thinking so too, Zeref sets his book down on the bed, walking up to her.

"You're being weird today." He touches his lips to hers.

"I'm not the only one being weird." Mavis steps on his toes, wrapping her arms around his neck. "What's the special occasion?"

He bites down on the tip of her ear. "Can't I wake up early for once?"

"Something like that would have been useful years ago." She presses herself closer to him. Whatever he had woken up for, it does not seem to be a prank—as uncharacteristic as that would have been—so she decides to let it go. "Breakfast?"

He trails a path of kisses down her neck, arriving at her collarbone. "Depends, is that you?" Mavis stomps on his foot, but she is barefoot and he is wearing shoes, and it is not like she weighs a lot. She pouts when he laughs.

"It's too early in the morning for this." She rolls her eyes at him, stepping off him and turning her back to him. She can feel the heat climbing up her neck and settling on her cheeks to make for a startling blush. It gets worse when she feels him coming up behind her, his hands seeking hers.

"Way too early to be awake. I think going back to bed sounds good, right?"

Mavis leans into his chest. "Breakfast sounds better." She _is_ hungry, and Zeref only bothers to make his omelets on Sunday.

"Oh, come _on_." She giggles as she drags him down the stairs to the kitchen. Most of the time they have a cook, but they like having the place to themselves on Sundays, transitory coaches notwithstanding. Mavis can cook, but Zeref is better at it. "Tons of cheese, please."

Zeref glares. "It ruins the flavor," he protests, but looks away in defeat when she pouts at him. "This is terrible."

"It's yummy, hush."

They eat breakfast together, bickering over what traditional folk song Mavis would ruin with electropop next. Then Zeref leaves because he had cooked, so now it is time for her to do the dishes. Sadly, they both hate housework with a passion.

"Anything but a Mildean song!" His voice carries over well from the living room, where she imagines he is rearranging his DVD collection for the millionth time.

"I like those a lot, though!"

"Just not those!" Mavis huffs at his words, not that he can hear her. She turns, intending to inform him of the joys of electropop, when she spots the book on the kitchen table. Their book sits in plain sight, in an otherwise impeccable surface. She calls it "their" book because she cannot pronounce its actual title. But it is them anyway, it is his voice and his hand running through her hair as he reads.

Argument forgotten, he hopes that perhaps Zeref had been planning on reading to her, and picks it up with careful fingers. She notices something stuck between the pages, but it falls before she can figure out what it is, dangling from the golden bookmark.

It feels for a moment like she cannot breathe, like maybe her heart had stopped beating, like her lungs had stopped expanding. It makes for an instant where there is nothing but the cold bite of the metal against the palm of her hand. It is a delicate ring, simple and inlaid with an array of small stones. Not flashy at all, which she prefers, and it tells her Zeref had asked someone else for help picking it out.

"Oh." She does not know what to say. Not that she needs to say anything, because no one is around to see her shock. Mavis had not expected this today, or tomorrow, or for a long while. She had thought he would propose during the Olympics. When he had not, she had assumed it would not come for a long, long time, and had forgotten about it.

Today is just Sunday—a typical Sunday morning that has now been made remarkable by a ring falling into her hands. Maybe it is a mistake. Maybe, she tells herself, he had hidden the ring in the book because she would have never thought to look for it there. Yet the placement of the book, the gesture itself tells her that no, it is deliberate.

It is a proposal, the kind of charming, subtle gesture that had made her fall in love with Zeref in the first place. Everything she would have wanted from a proposal, in the most unexpected of ways.

Mavis takes a deep breath, her hands trembling as she unties the knot on the ring. She almost drops it twice. It looks right when she slides it onto her finger, like something she would have bought for herself.

Hesitant, she makes her way into the living room, smiling when one of the diamonds catch the light. There is a lot of it too, because an entire wall is made up of windows. It looks picturesque, like it belongs in a photograph. Zeref is sitting on the sofa, a book on his lap. He does not look up at her when she enters. Zeref had not heard her at all, and his eyes widen when she holds out the hardcover to him.

"You mind reading this one?" Her chest feels tight, like someone is squeezing her heart, but for some reason it does not feel like a bad thing.

Zeref seems to be looking for something in her face, some type of verbal confirmation. She stays silent, and eventually he appears to find whatever he had been searching for. "Do you ever get tired of this one?"

Mavis settles next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. The action is familiar from the many times she has done it.

"It's my favorite."

* * *

 _AN:_ I'm so excited about the Olympics, I _had_ to write an AU. I made Mavis a rhythmic gymnast because it's my favorite sport, and it really doesn't get as much attention as it deserves. So I hope that I made someone curious enough to maybe watch it…? Anyway, it's a great discipline and I hope people won't get confused with all the terminology I used. The rhythmic gymnastics events are going on from this Friday to Sunday.

Mavis' style is largely based on Evgenia Kanaeva, who is the current Olympic champion, but as she's now officially retired, that will change soon. If anyone wants to see what I mean with a ballet-like choreography, her London 2012 Ball routines are great examples. I don't know of anyone who does the kind of style I pictured for Mavis after her comeback, but it's basically kpop choreography plus acrobatics and an apparatus, if that makes sense.

I'm really, really proud of this oneshot, and it's my favorite thing that I've written so far (and it's inished!) If anyone wants an update on Light Me Up, which is my main zervis story, I finished chapter four yesterday and I'm working on editing it. I'm looking to post it at the end of the week. Please remember to review, since reading what people think about something I've written really motivates me to keep writing!


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